Daisies for Innocence (23 page)

He was in his office, so if we wanted to talk to Inga without him around, this was our chance. Still, the Fowlers lived in the old Miller house, which was in a fairly secluded area. That had made it a terrific place to have parties as teenagers, but perhaps not so great if her husband happened to come home while I was there.

I looked over at Astrid. “Are you game?”

“Consider me your trustworthy sidekick.”

Grinning, I put the Jeep in gear. “I just want to make one quick stop at my place on the way.”

D
O
you know where we’re going, or do you want me to navigate?” Astrid asked as we climbed back into the Wrangler.

In my pocket, a variation on the blend of essential oils I’d taken when Ritter and I went to see Josie’s brother felt oddly heavy. This time I’d left out the white poppy and added a different ingredient.

Chestnut for justice.

“I know the way.” Twisting the key in the ignition, I added, “Haven’t been there since I was in college, though. Wonder what they’ve done to the inside of the place.”

My friend pointedly drew her seat belt across her lap and fastened it.

The Fowlers lived in a big log home nestled into the pines. It looked like a mountain lodge, with a deep wraparound porch, thick railings, and two smaller decks,
accessible from the upper floor. The cedar shake roof looked like the layered scales of a pinecone, and the peaked dormers had been set back to fit with the rest of the architecture. The foundation was of rough mismatched rock, giving the overall impression of a wooden houseboat beached on the shoals of a mountain river.

I parked the Wrangler at the edge of the circular drive on the west side near a copse of trees. Thinking to myself that the Fowlers needed to mitigate the flammable plant material around their home in case one of the state’s ubiquitous wildfires raced through this area, I got out. I grabbed the two pictures I’d borrowed from John Trace and closed the door. It was a bit after noon, and I had to admit the trees provided nice shade.

There were no bikes or toys or evidence of Inga’s perfect children anywhere in the driveway. Then I spied a swing set and large play area at the end of the house, where toys had been scattered with wild abandon, and smiled.

I knocked on the door. No response. Astrid reached over and pushed the doorbell. That elicited rapid footsteps inside, and Inga flung open the door.

Her hair hung in smooth waves over both shoulders, and she was dressed in a loose men’s-style shirt worn over beige Capri pants. She was barefoot, barefaced, and wide-eyed. She didn’t look surprised to see us; she looked shocked.

Her gaze ping-ponged between us. “Ellie? Astrid?” Then she saw the photos I held, and her shocked expression soured to disgust and anger. “You, too? How many
people has she dragged into this mess?” She stepped back to let us in. “You’re early.”

Astrid and I exchanged puzzled looks and went inside. My mind raced, fitting pieces together, making connections.

When the latch had clicked behind us, I turned to Inga. “I think there’s a misunderstanding—”

“Let’s just get to business,” she interrupted. “And then you can be on your way.”

I stared at her.

“What are you standing there for? Sit down, and I’ll get it. But if you think I’m going to serve you tea and crumpets while you wait, you’re sorely mistaken.” She turned and strode across the room, going through an arched doorway to the dining room.

Astrid looked bewildered.

“Let’s just sit down,” I said.

We perched together on the sofa and waited for Inga to return.

The interior of the house was quite different from the last time I’d been inside. The Millers had decorated with lodge-style everything, from deer heads on the walls to Hudson Bay blankets on the leather sofas and a faux butter churn by the fireplace. The Fowlers had spruced up the log interior with bigger windows and light wood
furniture upholstered in white. The wooden plank floor was padded with two enormous sheepskin rugs, and the antler chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling had been replaced with a pewter affair. A wide staircase led to the second floor, and they’d kept the original rough-hewn railing. I could see white-fabric-covered dining chairs through the door Inga had gone through. They had replaced the benches that used to surround the Miller’s huge barn-door table.

How did she keep all that white stuff clean with two little kids?

Ten-foot-tall French doors at one end of the room opened out to a tiered cedar deck that overlooked the sloping valley behind the house. I spied an outdoor kitchen and rows of planter boxes spilling over with trailing verbena, sweet potato vine, and creeping Jenny. One of the doors was open, and a hint of hyssop drifted in to join the breakfast smells of bananas and cinnamon toast in the house.

A rustle came from the other room. Then a door slammed.

Inga stomped back in and threw a letter-sized manila envelope on the table in front of us. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she said, “Take it and get out.”

Astrid and I looked at each other, then at her.

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

The woman’s familiar nervous energy hovered in the background, but at the moment it was dwarfed with rage.

“Of course it is. And it’s the last payment. Do you understand?”

“Um, we’re not here for any money.”

Her jaw set, and she started to say something. Then she paused, and doubt crept onto her face. “You’re not?”

I shook my head. “Please. Sit down. We need to talk to you.”

Slowly, she perched on the edge of a chair. Her eyes veered toward the staircase.

“Inga, where are the children?” I asked.

“I don’t have to tell you that!” Her eyes flared, and her shoulders tensed with a fierce protectiveness.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Astrid said. “What do you think we’re going to do?”

“We don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to know if they’re safe. Are they?” I asked Inga in a quiet voice.

She nodded.

“Okay.” I scooted closer to her and laid Josie’s photos on the coffee table. “We know about the Calla Club. That you worked there.”

Her lips pressed together.

“That you were a dancer.” I was guessing, but she didn’t deny it.

She looked at the envelope on the table, and her forehead wrinkled. “But you’re not here for money?”

“No.” I glanced at the envelope, too. “Who have you and Brock been paying off?”

“Brock. Oh, God. He’s going to find out. After all this, he’s still going to find out,” she said. Tears welled up in her eyes. She buried her face in her hands.

Astrid shot me a helpless look.

“I’m sorry. Truly,” I said. “But you have to tell us what happened.”

She looked up and hiccuped a sob.

“Tell us what happened to Josie,” I prompted.

“I don’t know,” Inga practically wailed. “We got home from Sacramento, and she’d been murdered. And God help me, I was
glad
.” Her jaw set. “When you told me that someone had killed her, Ellie, I was glad.”

No, you weren’t,
I thought, remembering the anxious energy coming off her.
You were scared.

Astrid looked outraged, then faded into thought. “But you didn’t kill her.”

“No!” Inga said.

“And your husband didn’t do it,” Astrid said, slowly, working it out.

“No! Why would he? He didn’t . . . know about . . .” She blinked back tears again. “But he’s going to find out now. Worse than that, the kids will know.”

And that, I realized, was what she was really worried about.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. Are you saying you gave Josie money? And that’s why you were glad she was dead?”

Chin quivering, she nodded. “I didn’t give the money to her, but she had to have been behind it. And now that she’s out of the picture, it’s still going on. It’ll never stop!”

Astrid and I exchanged a look.

“Who did you give the money to?” I said, pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Are you sure he didn’t send you?” she asked with a bewildered expression.

“No one sent us.” I looked at Astrid. “I think she means Karl.”

Astrid blinked. “The cook at the Roux Grill?”

“He worked at the Calla Club, too, after all. Didn’t he, Inga?”

Inga nodded, looking thoughtful. “Uh-huh.”

“Tell us what happened.”

Inga looked between us, then seemed to make a decision. “I got a letter.”

“A letter or an e-mail?” I mentally kicked myself.
Let her tell you.

“A hard copy letter.”

“Who was it from?” Astrid asked.

Inga said, “It must have been from Josie, right? It didn’t have a name on it, but she’d already told me she had some pictures that I was in. ‘Art photos,’” she said, glancing down at the pictures on the coffee table. “She threatened to make them public.”

“How?” I asked.

“She was going to show them in a gallery in Sacramento.”

“The pictures are brilliant photography,” I said. “But I never in a million years would have recognized you in them. Just look.”

“You wouldn’t?” she asked in a small voice, and leaned forward.

I smiled. “Except for your daisy tattoo I happened to see the other day.”

Her fingers fluttered to her shoulder. “But the letter . . .”

“What did it say?” Astrid asked.

“It came right out and said if I didn’t pay a hundred thousand dollars, she’d tell Brock I was a stripper at the Calla. That there were pictures. I thought she was my friend.” Tears threatened again, and I was relieved when she took a deep breath and seemed to force them back. “He’s very conservative. Brock, I mean. I met him at a fund-raiser where I was waitressing.” Defiance flashed in her eyes when she looked at me. “I worked for a caterer during the day.”

I nodded but managed to keep my mouth shut.

She went on. “We hit it off. He liked me, even though I was a waitress and he was an important businessman. He lived in San Francisco—didn’t know anything about the Calla Club. He’d only been in Silver Wells to help support some political candidate when I met him.” She sighed, and her expression turned dreamy for a moment. “I quit the Calla and moved to San Francisco when things started getting serious. Once we got married, though, he wanted to get out of the city. For the”—her throat worked—“for the kids. So we moved to Poppyville.”

She looked down at her hands, now twisting in her shirttail. “It was perfect.” Her gaze rose to ours. “I had the perfect life. I love Brock, I really do. He’s good to me and kind, and we have Molly and Ethan.” Her face collapsed. “They’re going to hate me.”

“No, they won’t,” Astrid said. “You’re their mama.”

“Tell us about the blackmail,” I said.

“After the letter, I knew Josie was serious. So I got the money together,” she said simply. “When Karl showed up, it kind of surprised me, but, then again, not really.
They’d been friends at the Calla, so he already knew about my past. When I asked if Josie had sent him, he said she had. So I gave him the money. I dared to hope that would be the end of it. I really thought it was, once I heard someone had killed Josie.” She looked down at the pristine rug at our feet. “But now Karl wants another payment.”

“Wait a minute.” Astrid stood. “What do you mean, ‘now’?”

I rose as well, alarm bells clanging in my brain.

Inga gazed up at us. “He’s coming this afternoon.” She looked at her watch. “In about ten minutes.”

“Inga!” I reached for her arm and pulled her up from the chair. “I don’t think Josie sent Karl here. You were the one who mentioned her name to him, right?”

She gave a small nod.

“Josie never wanted to blackmail you. She just wanted to show her photos in a real art gallery. She was proud of them, and she wanted you to know.” I paused, thinking. “I bet she told Karl, too—maybe even showed him the pictures. And bingo, he saw an opportunity and decided to make a quick buck. But Josie wasn’t like that.”

I remembered how the redheaded cook had assumed I didn’t want Harris to know I’d been in his office, and that I’d want to sneak out the back way.

“But Karl
is
like that. And worse, I think when you asked if Josie sent him, he saw her as a rival for the blackmail money he was planning to milk from you for a long, long time.” I looked at Astrid, whose eyes had gone wide as she put it together.

“And he killed her,” she breathed.

Inga turned white and grabbed the back of the chair.

My friend had already moved toward the stairway. “Get your kids, Inga,” I said. “Astrid, will help you. We’re going to the police station. Right now.”

At the mention of her children, Inga regained her balance and ran past Astrid. My friend followed her up the stairs, two at a time.

I pulled out my cell and called 911. The call failed, and I realized there were no bars on the phone. How could cell reception be so terrible this close to town? I went out to the deck, tried again, and got through. Relieved, I said, “This is Ellie Allbright. I’m at the Fowler’s home. The old Miller place, you know?”

The response was garbled nonsense.

“Nan? Nan Walton, is that you? Can you hear me?”

More cellular gobbledygook.

“Darn it!” I hung up and called Lupe Garcia’s number. I couldn’t hear anything on the other end of the line, but the call didn’t end, so I said, “It’s Ellie. I’m at Inga Fowler’s. Karl Evers killed Josie. I’m sure of it. We’re coming to the station.”

I hung up and ran inside, casting around the room for evidence of a landline. With cell reception this horrible, the Fowlers had to have one. I spied a cordless handset tucked behind a vase on a console table across the room.